Icebreaker
by Skalidra
Summary: Jason's been staying off the grid ever since his confrontation with Bruce and the Joker, hiding across the world and away from everyone to sort himself out. He assumed that eventually, one of the Bats would track him down to make sure that's all he's doing, and the replacement is the one that does. At least until he realizes that Tim is stumbling into a very nasty mercenary group.


Alright, JayTim week, day 5! This one is 'Bruised and Battered', and I'm sticking it in a pretty much canon universe. Just, you know, with extra JayTim interaction because reasons. Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this are : canon-typical violence, moderate injury, and non-explicit treatment of those injuries.

* * *

When he first sees the notification come through on his laptop that his gear's detected Bat-code communications, he thinks it's some kind of check up. It's irritating as fuck, but it's not really surprising that one of the Bats managed to track him down, and even less so that they'd feel the need to check on him. He hasn't hunted any of them in awhile, has actually been doing his best to stay the hell out of their way, but it's not like things are exactly friendly.

He's needed… time. He's needed to sort himself out and get control of whatever the hell the Pit left inside of him, and he couldn't do that with them hovering over his every move, or threatening prison and _disapproval_ if he dares to do what he's trained himself to do. So he vanished, dropped off the grid, more or less. Not enough that someone with a Bat's skill couldn't track him, but enough that unless they went looking no one was going to find him.

Really, it was just a matter of time until someone came to check and make sure that big bad Jason wasn't making any evil plans to burn their city down around them. Again.

He sets his systems to work pinpointing exactly where the specific frequency is coming from, and then minimizes it to the background — he doesn't have an enormous, multi-monitor computer, _thank you very much_ — and starts checking the regular methods of travel for any hits. He knows most of the common aliases the Bats use, and if they came in legally they would have had to have flashed a passport somewhere or other. Or triggered some kind of news.

The snort comes automatically when he gets a hit on an 'Alvin Draper' having come in by plane about five hours ago. Well, he wasn't expecting them to send the little replacement Robin to check up on him, though it's a step above sending the demon spawn brat at least. Tim's decent enough, if a bit disturbing and occasionally a real _prick_ . Then again, he might be imagining most of that if he's honest with himself, which he really _tries_ to be these days. The kid hasn't done anything _wrong_ so much as had the shitty luck to have gotten shoved into a war he didn't have any business being in.

He's never really apologized for any of that. Maybe he never will. It's hard for him to admit he's wrong on the best of days, and it just stings to be reminded of what he's lost, and how what used to be his was handed off to other people. Then again, maybe he's got more in common with the kid than he used to. After all, the little demon brat is behind the wheel of Robin now, and from what he remembers Tim didn't exactly choose to give that up so much as have the great Dickie-bird yank it away from him.

Maybe the kid gets what it's like to be replaced. And maybe he gets what it's like to go a little bit insane, too.

After all, he heard that Tim went pretty nuts, running around the world trying to prove that Bruce wasn't dead. Kudos to him too, because apparently he was _right_ . Guess that's the difference between getting praised as a hero or called an insane lunatic; in the end you have to be right. Which he _was_ , but apparently nobody else is willing to admit it. But he's also the first person to admit that he hasn't exactly been 'sane' these last couple years, and not being sane tends to lower your credibility when it comes to judgment calls about people living or dying.

The background window pings success at him, and he brings it back up and takes a look. The kid's down near the nastier side of town, in among the warehouse district, and he lets out another snort, since there's no one but him around to hear it.

"Not bad," he mutters, tracking the little blinking dot on its map and then zooming in. Kid's near where he's been investigating the last couple weeks, tracking down a ring of smugglers that he's fairly sure are tied to Deathstroke in some way. Which, normally, he would stay the hell away from because he respects Slade and doesn't want to piss him off, except that these guys have caused a fair amount of damage to anyone who looks at them wrong, and that's something he can't quite bring himself to ignore.

He can talk Slade down or buy him off; he can't heal a victim's broken fingers, let alone anything worse.

Kid must be hunting him down through rumors, or maybe a last sighting. He's been spending a lot of time down there recently, figuring out exactly where the gang is hiding and what kind of firepower they have. The answers have been: in the warehouse that Tim is circling, and _a lot_ . Enough that he's been hesitating on going in until he either buys some larger firepower himself, manages to weaken them enough, or gets some kind of backup. He's pretty damn good, but the people in there are not just your typical gang members; they've got training, and military-grade weaponry. _Good_ military too, not the shit that still passes for decent in some countries.

He watches the dot, relaxing back and just letting his mind drift a bit, considering how he's going to play this. He's sure that eventually Tim will find his safehouse; much as he hates to admit it the kid's too good not to find it. He could just wait, see how long it takes him. Or he could go out before Tim gets all the way here, so he can prove that he's not being taken by surprise, and maybe prevent his safehouse from actually being found out. That might be worth it.

If Tim's tracking his last known locations, then it won't take all that long for him to go to traffic and store cameras, and less after that to track him back here. After all, tech is what the kid is good at, more than anything else. Once he gets the initial search area down, it's only a matter of time.

He kind of _likes_ this safehouse.

Then that little blinking dot shifts into the warehouse it's been circling, and he freezes up.

Alright, slim chance that these guys — and their impressive as _hell_ security — don't see Tim. Slim chance that Tim manages to slip by undetected and the trained, military armed goons don't go after him. _Slim_ chance that Tim doesn't get the _shit_ beaten out of him before getting executed. He wasn't going to go up against these guys without a solid plan, so Tim? No, the kid won't kill, he's not as strong, he's not as experienced. He's going to _die_ .

 _Fuck_ .

He shoves out of his chair, running for the closet and shoving the door open as he hurriedly strips out of his clothing and then almost frantically into his suit and armor instead. As much as he wants to just run out of his apartment the second it's on, he makes himself take the time to gather weaponry; to get all his usual guns and knives and various tools as well as an assault rifle slung over his back. There's no way he's getting out of this without making a mess; the Bats can kiss his ass.

 _Then_ he lets himself run, barely taking time to lock his apartment back up before he's booking it for the garage at the bottom of the building. His bike will be faster than taking the rooftops, and at this point subtlety is out the door. He's past caring if they hear him approaching.

It's not that long a trip down to the warehouses, but every minute feels too long. Every minute taunts him with the possibility that he might be too late. He's not entirely sure that he could handle finding a dead Robin in a warehouse, even if it is the little replacement bird. Too close to home in too many ways. So he goes as fast as possible instead, taking corners as tight as he can without sending the bike skidding out from under him, and dodging the few cars and civilians with an ease born of practice.

His heart drops to his stomach when he gets into the warehouse district and he can hear gunfire, _see_ the lit-up windows of his gang's current base of operations. _Tim_ is in there.

He leaps off his bike, letting it skid to a stop as he pulls the assault rifle from his back and goes right for the front door. He is _done_ with playing nice; there is absolutely no way he's letting Tim go down to a bunch of bastards like this, no matter what their personal history is. Loyalty, in the end, goes deeper than pretty much anything else, and _damn_ them all but _no one_ is allowed to kill Bats except maybe him.

He kicks the door open and waits only long enough to find a first target before he starts shooting. They're not expecting anyone else, so none of them are thinking to defend the direction he comes from, which makes them easy pickings. By the time they've recognized him as a threat, he's taken out more than enough of them to make this a more even fight.

Returning fire makes him duck behind a few crates that he's not entirely sure don't contain explosives, so he takes off again as soon as possible, circling around the warehouse from one piece of cover to another and towards where a good hunk of their attention is still focused. At least until he can see a black and red figure pressed tight to the back of a too-narrow steel support beam, body carefully drawn in behind it and honestly the kid's fucking lucky that he fits behind that thing. Not _that_ lucky though, because he can see the little spatters of blood at the kid's feet, which means that either he's been hidden there awhile — unlikely; these goons are good enough to have flanked him by now — or he's bleeding badly enough to be trailing it everywhere he goes.

That head snaps over to him, and for a second he just stares because he _recognizes_ the costume the kid's got on. He's been sorta trying not to interact with the Bats as much as possible, but he's still not quite sure how the hell he managed to miss the fact that Tim's been wearing his old costume. Specifically the one he got universe-jumping around with Kyle and Donna, which is a thing he's been doing his very best to forget about.

But yeah, he recognizes that red tunic, the heavy cape, and the smooth cowl that leaves just the kid's jaw exposed. It's a little bit more of a shock than he's capable of registering right now.

The kid looks _confused_ , staring at him, and he really wishes that he could properly glare without taking off his helmet. Instead, he takes a look around, identifies the next piece of cover past the kid's terrible hiding spot, and goes for it. He sprays covering fire as he goes, keeping as many of the goons down as he can while he darts across the dozen or so feet, grabs the kid by the waist, and drags him over and to the next stack of crates.

He gets a sharp gasp of pain as he shoves the kid back against the crates, and holds him there by one shoulder as he checks the ammo he has left for his assault rifle with the other.

"Jason?" Tim asks, sounding a bit like he's considering if he's hallucinating. Which brings up the option that maybe Tim _isn't_ actually here for him; guess he's blown that.

"You and me?" he snarls, tightening his grip on Tim's shoulder. "We're going to talk about this fucking costume. Now _stay_ ; I'll deal with them."

He starts to move, and Tim reaches up and grabs a handful of his jacket, stalling him for a second. "Don't—" The kid has to pause, to gasp in a breath. "Don't kill them."

He _stares_ for a second, then snorts out an almost bitter sound and smacks Tim's hand away from him. Of _course_ the stupid Bat kid wouldn't want the gun-wielding mercenary assholes dead. Why make things simple when they could be painfully hard instead, and probably get them both killed? Yeah, that sounds just like a Bat.

"No promises, kid," is what he ends up snapping, as he takes a brief glance over the edge of the crate to track the remaining goons' positions. "Try not to bleed out while I'm busy saving your ass, alright?"

He moves before the kid can get together a response, booking it back to his last stack of crates so he's not stuck with the bleeding bird any longer than he has to be. He doesn't want to draw fire to the kid's cover. It's also not fun or comfortable to be sort-of responsible for Tim's safety, but he hasn't got much of a choice about it. It was this or let the kid die, and he's not _that_ much of an asshole. He isn't about to have a Robin die on his watch. _Fuck_ all the judgment and the disapproval, he's _better_ than that.

The kid flings a few things into the fight, but otherwise stays out of it. Given the condition he seemed to be in, that's probably better than him trying to do anything bigger and getting any more of his ass handed to him. At this point, Tim would probably have been more a liability than a help if he'd tried to do more, and he just _hates_ the thought of having to watch his replacement's back. At least he pretends he does, because that's easier than the irritating rush of concern and worry he gets at the thought of Tim fighting even while having been… what? Shot? Stabbed?

It's fucking irritating, that's what it is. Fuck the specifics.

He only gets fatal with about half of them, and frankly the kid should take that as a victory, considering what he knows about these guys, plus what they've done to his replacement. He'd gladly take all of them out of commission if he thought he could get away with it, but he's not in any kind of mood for a lecture, and he might just shoot the kid himself if it happens, so he does his best to prevent it. Or, makes some minuscule effort towards preventing it. He's sure as fuck not meeting the kid halfway, not after he's the one who saved Tim's ass.

He puts in a call to the local police, gives them their location as he carefully restrains all of the still-alive goons so none of them tries anything stupid. One's dumb enough to try and threaten him with Deathstroke — which frankly is just _unprofessional_ ; you don't rat out your employer like that — and he makes sure to hit that one extra hard to knock him out. It's not like anyone's paying enough attention to judge him.

When he's finally done he circles back around to Tim's selection of cover, and grimaces behind his helmet. The kid's not bleeding bad enough for him to be worried about Tim actually _dying_ immediately, but he doesn't look real good. He's lying pretty still, back against the crates and only breathing in slow, even breaths clearly designed to keep his heart rate low and minimize blood flow. One gloved hand is hooked underneath the fall of that black cape, and he assumes that it has to be pressed against whatever's making the kid bleed, keeping it from being any worse than it is.

"Hey," he spits, as he sinks down into a crouch in front of the kid. "Still with me, kid?"

Tim's mouth parts, and then it closes again and his replacement just gives a single nod, not otherwise moving. "I'm fine," the kid says, after a moment of silence.

"Bullshit," he counters immediately. "You good to be moved? Cops are on their way."

He gets another nod, and then Tim's jaw tightens, a little sound of pain escaping between gritted teeth. "Yeah, yeah, I— I'm good. I'll last."

He's pretty sure he won't get permission if he actually asks, so he doesn't. He just shifts forward, pulls the kid into a bridal carry, and gets to his feet. Kid's a little _heavy_ , but he just grunts at the strain of standing and ignores the rest. He heads for the exit that his bike is closest to, ignoring the way Tim is muttering little protesting noises and words, breath hot against the sliver of exposed skin beneath his helmet. He's not taking orders or opinions from someone too out of it to actually talk to him.

The kid… The kid needs to be patched up, and hospitals are dangerous for their kind. Calling another Bat won't give Tim the care he needs in enough time, so it— Well, it's up to him, isn't it? As much as he doesn't really like the idea of bringing Tim back to his safehouse, or of patching the kid up, he's the only real option right now and he's _not_ leaving the kid to fend for himself. He's not that much of a prick. If there was another easy option, sure, but there's just not. So he'll patch the kid up, get him moving, and ditch him in the nearest safe zone so the kid can get the fuck out of the city he's calling home for right now.

Getting his motorcycle up on its wheels without dropping the kid is an exercise is multitasking, but he manages it. Tim is just lying against his chest now, not struggling or squirming at all, and when he balances on the seat of his bike he hesitates a moment before shaking the kid a bit. He gets a protesting grunt for that.

" _Hey_ ," he stresses. "You with me, or you need a hospital?"

He's pretty sure the kid is blinking up at him, but he can't see it behind the lenses on that cowl. But then Tim shifts, pressing to get out of his hold, and when he lets it happen the kid just moves to straddle the bike in front of him, leaning back against his chest and reaching back to grip at his thighs with fairly strong hands, considering. When the kid shows no signs of wanting to actually speak, he just decides to take that as a yes.

"Alright," he mutters, and stretches around the kid to grab the handles of the bike, and make sure it's still running smoothly. "I got you, kid. Just hang on to me and don't fucking fall off; got that?"

He doesn't wait for a response, just kicks the bike into gear and takes off. He can hear sirens as they get away, but does his best to ignore them apart from making sure no one's peeled off to follow them. He is _not_ tracking police back to his apartment, no matter who's lying against his chest. He's a decent person, usually, but he's not a saint, and he'd rather dump Tim at a hospital than risk the police following him to his current safe haven. The kid would get better care, and is probably still aware enough to stop anyone from taking a peek under the cowl.

Kid is still responsive at least, so that's something.

He checks a couple more times for followers as he gets closer to his apartment building, but nothing comes up. He gets into the garage, clicks the bike off and activates the security measures on it, and then sweeps Tim back up in his arms — it's easier this time, now that he's not doing it from the ground — and heads for the single elevator. Lucky for them both, no one's around to comment on the sight of Red Hood carrying a bleeding Red Robin into the elevator and then back out of it, let alone the picture he probably makes trying to unlock his apartment and not drop the kid at the same time.

Tim stirs a bit when he closes them inside the apartment, but he ignores it and just carries the kid over to lay him down on the couch.

Then he _does_ make a move, sliding one hand to cup the back of the kid's neck and pushing the cowl back with the other. A hand grabs his wrist, but the kid doesn't actually try to _stop_ him, so he ignores that too. Tim's forehead is damp with sweat, and so is that black hair — longer than he remembers it being, last they tangled — but the kid's crystal blue eyes are focused on him and only a little bit glazed, so he's conscious at least.

"Strip off whatever you need to for me to get to that," he orders, as he lets go of the kid and raises his hands to his own helmet. It comes off with a hiss, and he tosses it towards the couch at the kid's feet as he says, "I'll grab a kit."

"You're going to patch me up?" Tim asks, voice just a little weak, but also clearly confused.

"No," he snaps sarcastically, peeling the domino mask off his face with a wince, "I brought you back to my safehouse to watch you bleed out on my couch. Christ, kid, if I wanted you dead I would have left you in that warehouse, so don't be a paranoid little shit. Strip out of the goddamn suit so I can get to whatever happened to you before you pass out on me."

Tim looks surprised, and he just scoffs low in the back of his throat and gets to his feet, turning his back on the kid to stalk into his bathroom instead of dealing with that look. Perks of the trade, he's got a well stocked and really good first aid kit; honestly it probably shouldn't even be called a 'first aid' kit so much as just an all around medical kit. If it doesn't require intense surgery or machinery, he can probably do it with what he's got on hand. Cleaning and stitching some hole or gash in his replacement shouldn't be a problem.

When he gets back to the living room Tim is standing, cape and cowl off, and his tunic dropping to the ground at his feet. The kid's back is bare, smooth apart from the various lines of scars that mark all of them, and as he approaches he watches the muscle making up the kid flex. He has to bite his tongue not to make a snarky comment when Tim's hands push those black pants down too, and he definitely _doesn't_ steal a glance at the firm, round shape of the kid's ass, covered only in a pair of skintight black briefs.

He circles around and drops the kit down in front of the couch, and is glad he didn't say anything when he notices the ragged gash at the front of the kid's thigh. Nothing's too badly damaged, or the kid wouldn't be standing, but it definitely hurts. No wonder Tim wasn't moving around much, and didn't put up a fight when he carried him around. Add that to the clear gunshot wound high on his replacement's chest, just under his right arm, and yeah, these are pretty decisive wounds in a fight with any real threat to it.

Tim's got the sense to sit down, and he surveys the kid as he shrugs off his own jacket and then peels off his gloves, getting ready to work on the injuries. There are other minor scrapes and cuts, and some reddened, darkening skin that's threatening vivid bruises too. Strong bastard, to get hits that strong even through the kid's armor.

"Anything broken?" he asks bluntly, flipping the kit open. Tim just shakes his head, blue eyes watching him and caught between pain and wariness. "Good." He tosses the kid a cloth, and snaps, "Press that to your thigh. Deal with that in a bit. You want anesthetic, kid?"

Tim's jaw tightens even as he does what he's been told. "No," the kid murmurs, after a moment. "I'll deal with it."

"You don't have to impress me," he points out, grabbing what supplies he'll need from the box to deal with that gunshot wound.

"Don't trust you," Tim answers, after another second of silence, and he stills for just a second, staring up and suddenly _remembering_ what they are. What he's done to the kid. Yeah, come to think of it, he wouldn't trust any kind of drugs he wasn't sure of either. Not from someone like him.

"Fair," is his concession. "Alright, this is going to hurt like a bitch then." He moves to sit at Tim's side, grimly concluding that the bullet never came back out, so yeah, he's going to have to dig for it.

To his credit, Tim doesn't scream. His replacement shivers and groans and bites down _hard_ on the cloth he offers, but he never screams. Not through the digging, the cleaning, or even the stitching. When he shifts down to his knees so he can work on Tim's thigh, he's a little less cautious about it. He knows Tim can handle the pain, so he doesn't pause and just works through it when Tim starts to shake at the sensation of him cleaning the wound. The cloth comes out of his replacement's mouth when he starts to stitch, and Tim pants and groans but seems to weather it without needing to bite anything.

He looks up, and finds himself strangely caught. Tim's skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat, doing that dumb-as-fuck thing it does to muscular people — Dickie being the king of it — where it makes him look downright _edible_ instead of just sickly. It doesn't help that Tim's mouth is parted, gaze a little hazed, and it hits him with a sudden jolt that Tim is _pretty_ . Pretty in a way he usually attributes to women, but somehow the kid makes it look good, almost effortless, even with hair damp by sweat and tangled from the cowl. Somehow he finds himself wanting to comb the tangles out of that hair, to wrap it around his fingers, to _pull_ —

Tim is staring back, and he stays frozen still as the kid looks at him. There's something strange in those blue eyes, something considering in a way he's not totally sure he appreciates but he can't bring himself to demand a stop to. Not when the kid gives a shaky exhale, looks almost _surprised_ for a split second before it fades back to consideration.

There's some feeling in the air between them, some kind of anticipation stretched thin and tense, and he ends up swallowing. It takes him another moment to realize that he's kneeling in front of Tim, that he's actually _between_ the kid's legs because this was the best angle to stitch up the gash in his thigh. Not that _thighs_ are what he should be thinking of right now.

His hands lower a bit as he stares upwards, and then suddenly Tim is gasping, _yelping_ , and he realizes he's pulled the thread tight against his replacement's injury. Before he can even properly comprehend that, and move to fix it, a fist _slams_ into his face.

He crashes to the ground, feels the sick shift of cartilage all the way through to the back of the skull, and gasps. Which hurts like a _bitch_ .

"Mother _fuck!_ " he snarls, cradling one hand against his face, feeling the aching fire of his face and the slow slide of blood from his nose and realizing that it's broken. Timothy-the-replacement _broke his fucking nose_ .

"Shit! Shit, I am _so_ sorry," Tim gasps. "I didn't mean to— I just wasn't expecting the pull and it was automatic and _oh my god_ , are you okay?"

He pushes up on his free hand, sitting sprawled out as he stares in disbelief at the blood on his fingers. Tim is still rambling, still babbling something like apologies, and eventually he turns and snarls at the kid to shut up, before he huffs out a breathless laugh that _also_ hurts like a bitch.

" _Fuck_ ," he spits, tasting blood on his tongue and fighting the urge to tilt his head back. It'll just run back into his throat. " _Ouch_ ." He winces, feels the slow curl of _respect_ in his chest, and then gives a crooked, probably bloody, grin and comments, "You hit a lot harder than you used to, you little bastard. Broke my goddamn nose."

Tim blinks, staring at him. "I can set it?" the kid offers, looking a little confused but not outright apologetic anymore, which is a step up.

He snorts, spits, " _Shit!_ " when he realizes how terrible of an idea it is, and then gives another laugh and shifts closer, back between Tim's legs. "Alright. You fix me, and then I'll get back to fixing you."

At that, Tim actually cracks a little smile. "Deal. This is going to hurt."

He barely resists the urge to snort again as Tim's hands rise and take over, carefully prodding to find the exact break. "No shit, Sherlock," he says instead. Then Tim's hands jerk, his nose shifts back into place with that same sick _crunch_ of cartilage, and he groans long and low in the back of his throat, following it up with a harsh string of swears that don't actually make any logical sense but fuck it.

"There we go," Tim says, with just a bit of satisfaction, and he peers upwards through narrowed eyes.

"You like hurting me," he accuses, as he grabs for one of the cloths and holds it up to sort of control the blood coming from his nose.

Tim's mouth curls in a small smirk, and his voice is almost cheery when he responds, "It's sort of therapeutic."

He rolls his eyes, but offers a crooked grin that Tim probably can't see much of with the now bloody cloth pressed underneath his nose. "Well don't make a habit of it, kid. You owe me one now."

"I owe _you_ one?"

"Damn fucking right you do," he spits, lowering the cloth so he can get back to work on Tim's thigh. Luckily he didn't yank the thread out when he fell. "I rescue your sorry ass out of the goodness of my heart, I bring you back here and patch you up, and you break my nose? Yeah, you fucking owe me, Tim."

For a second there's silence, but when he looks up Tim is staring down at him, looking just a bit confused again. "You've never called me by my actual name," the kid murmurs, after another moment.

He stalls, then hastily shakes his head — _ow_ — and growls, "Well don't get used to that either, _kid_."

"Jason?" He looks up, and Tim gives a small smile and says, "Thank you."

It leaves him vaguely uncomfortable, so he just nods and drops his gaze again. After a few more moments, when the threat of looking like he's deliberately switching subjects is gone, he pulls together enough focus to offer, "You can stay on my couch tonight, if you want. Probably shouldn't be swinging across town on this thing."

When Tim repeats, "Thank you," he refuses to look up.

"Buy me a drink sometime; make it up to me."

A snort. "Jason, I'm seventeen."

Which is a nasty little reminder, but he shoves it away. It's not like he was going to actually _do_ anything with the realization that Tim is pretty. "Like you haven't got a fake ID. So buy me one when you're eighteen. We'll call it even."

A moment of silence — he's _not_ looking up — and then Tim speaks, voice quiet and sounding like he's smiling. "Sounds good."


End file.
